In April

the unraveling blue above,
with a swift left-right sweep,
only vaguely registering
the crisscrossing plane lines,
a horn blasting in the small
of the left ear, and leading
a street symphony of clangs
and hums and swishes
thickened by the grit
of the gravelly crumbs
winter left in retreat,
at the corner glancing
into the cracked face
of the street behind,
something flying up and away
(what?)
and a choreography of reds,
yellows, and greens
extending towards
the hazy horizon,
the side mirror catching
another sight of the long
scarf tresses flying
in the slipstream
of this forward motion,
running parallel
with the orange
danger ribbons
flapping festively
where spring is
repaired, and somewhere
to the right, above
the shoes and wheels
and busyness,
a dog is barking
from an open balcony door.

the first bike ride of the year.

Baby Steps in Later Age

resist the downward pull

and let your hand move up

and alight

(softly, as in a morning sunrise)
on the small of that head,

or the nook of that neck,

or the curve of that chin,

and feel the floating atoms

of the light

invade the space within.

or

let that roaming hand

loosely linger

on your hip

and suavely

slide behind

and trigger

quasar starburst

(and then more)

with a sleight of finger.

pick whichever
feels out of character
and explore the new
avenues -- all you need
is a brand new pair
of baby-step shoes.